


Help

by bennyboyTallmadge



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 1776 - Freeform, Angst, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Series, Signs of PTSD, religious doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 05:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11616609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyboyTallmadge/pseuds/bennyboyTallmadge
Summary: Ben is once again struggling with his inner demons after a cruel encounter with British troops. Caleb tries his best to help.





	Help

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this short story for everyone (including me) who urgently needs some Tallster after the recent events in Season 4. It is a mixture of a rather angsty character study of Ben with some pre-slash Tallster included.  
> This is my first work ever I am posting here and also my first fiction I have ever written in English (and I'm kinda anxious about posting it, because especially the language Caleb is using is very hard for me to write), so please forgive me for eventual mistakes and wrong expressions, if you could point them out to me I would be thankful for it. 
> 
> My inspiration for this work was the song "Help" by Hurts (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=88XxoddW9iY), go check them out, they make amazing music and the song is fitting very well in my opinion.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a nice day!

Ben has always had this peculiar sensation of emptiness inside him after the end of a battle. It feels like a cold, dark hand creeping up his spine, slowly and mercilessly closing around his throat. It constantly begins to strangle him, even though he tries his hardest to fight the feeling of being choked. Every time the last bullet has been fired and the last thrust of a saber has found its target, when he leans himself on the handle of his weapon with his breath going fast and every muscle in his body burning from exhaustion, the darkness returns to him like an old, loyal friend, with the only difference being, Ben does not welcome it with joy, but with anxiety and displeasure.

He has never been able to fully comprehend the source of this sensation. Yes, there are horrible things to be seen in war and certainly Ben can think of more pleasant things than ending other men's lives, but there surely is no pity inside him for the men serving under the British King. It is his duty and his destiny to fight those who try to deprive the American men and women from their god given right to freedom. If killing is necessary to secure this freedom, Ben will do it without hesitating.  
Nevertheless seeing men laying dead on the ground, and him being the cause of that, on a daily basis is something that left its traces on his mind and soul. So many men, often not much older than boys have already died a senseless death and in such cases there is still a part of him that is repulsed by the thought of killing even more of them.

Concerning the soldiers fighting on his side he sometimes is close to wishing he could just drop the mask of indifference he is forced to wear as an officer, let himself sink to his knees beside the body of a fallen man and grief for him like his instinct tells him to. He does not know everyone of his men in person, of course, but seeing a familiar face staring towards the sky, with no light left in its lifeless eyes, can often feel like a punch in the stomach.  
The first time Ben has seen a battlefield after a fight he has not been able to hold back a few tears burning in his eyes, but he has gotten used to it. To seeing men die he talked to hours before, that had teased their fellow soldier about his latest encounter with a tavern wench, or that had spoken a quick prayer before the fight to ask the Lord for protection. He has gotten used to hearing the screams of the wounded, knowing they will not make it through another night. He has gotten used to killing without hesitating, to feeling the blood run across his hands and splatter on his face.

The feeling of emptiness, of darkness and guilt is just a weakness, Ben tells himself, a sensitive spot, he has to be aware of in order to prevent it from restraining him in case of combat.  
Hence he is even more thankful for the trance-like condition he sinks into every time he throws himself into a fight, his saber drawn, urging his horse to run as fast as possible, and yelling the Dragoon's battle cries. He feels like another person, when the rush takes control over him and makes him do things, the Ben of a few years ago would have never thought of doing. Who would have thought that Benjamin Tallmadge, the son of a Reverend, would become an officer in an army fighting the King’s troops?

 _Thou shalt not kill_ , the ancient words echo in his mind every time he draws his weapon and orders his men to attack. In the beginning, after he first enlisted, the shame, the feeling of committing a sin, has been overwhelming, like a deafening scream in his head. But by now it has faded into a whisper, barely perceivable, only becoming louder in the lonely hours of the night, when his thoughts are his only company. It should worry him, that the voice of reason, the voice of his father preaching about the Lord is fading during battle, but – although he is not ready to admit that yet- he is secretly glad about it.

Today, he knows, he will once again not be able to sleep. The feeling of guilt, the pictures of the cruelty of the battlefield flashing before his eyes will once again keep him awake the entire night. Ben has seen men succumbing to madness after seeing one battle too many. The fear in the back of his mind that one day he is going to be reduced to a trembling, terrified nothing is one of the reasons he craves the numb unconsciousness of sleep, even though the nightmares are just a slightly more pleasant alternative.

At the moment the only thing he wishes for is to return to camp as quickly as possible and to withdraw to his tent. But there are still several miles to go, several miles of time and silence for his thoughts to take over again. Under normal circumstances he enjoys being on the road with his dragoons because a long ride on horseback can clear ones mind like nothing else can. But today they return with blood on their hands, blood that has not even dried yet. Ben tries his best to focus on the road, on the rhythm of his horse trotting underneath him but still he fails to stop the images of the skirmish he has witnessed a few hours ago from playing over and over again in his head.

Redcoats, all of the sudden appearing from the woods they where patrolling through, appearing decimated and disoriented, maybe deserters, maybe men who lost their regiment in a battle or in a rushed troop movement. Ben orders them to surrender to the dragoons obviously outnumbering them but they waste no time charging their rifles and opening their fire at the mounted soldiers.  
Although there are only about fifteen British soldiers, this encounter with the enemy turns out to be the most ferocious one Ben has witnessed in a long time. It is a short, but nevertheless embittered fight and even he is not able to prevent himself from getting dragged along by the fury that is suddenly overcoming his men. Like a madman, a person possessed by some dark force, he stabs any piece of red fabric that catches his eye, far from any common sense, from any humanity.  
The screams and groans of the deadly injured King’s men are not a reason this time to pause or to show mercy, no, they incite the men even more. It seems to Ben as if he is perceiving his surroundings through a fog, red with blood. He can hear his pulse race in his ear, feel pure adrenalin rushing through his veins.  
All the sounds of the battle around him are muffled, dampened and incredibly far away. He does not think, does not feel anymore. He is not even able to tell apart his own cries from the enemy’s ones.

It is not until there is no redcoat left moving, let alone standing on his feet, that the soldiers seem to slowly gain back their consciousness and awake from their deadly madness. Silence begins to sink on the scene of battle. Ben as well stops in his movements and slowly lets the tip of his saber sink toward the muddy ground. His chest is rising and falling heavily with his labored breath and he can feel drops of sweat run down his forehead. Supporting himself with the handle of his weapon, he looks up. It only takes about two seconds to make him wish for his eyes to return to the ground. The familiar emptiness, that has already started to creep up inside of him again, suddenly overwhelms him at this sight and causes him to sway slightly.

Blood. Blood everywhere. It colors his hands in a bright, glistening red and soaks his blue uniform, slowly making it become stiff as it starts to dry. Red drops drip off the blade of his saber and fall on top of his once shiny, black boots. The grass he is standing on is slippery with a mixture of dug up mud and the blood that has been shed during the fight. When he lets his bloodstained fingers run through his messed up hair he can feel the strands getting sticky. Even the coat of his horse, standing a few feet away from him seems to be moist with the red liquid.

What have they done? Why in God's name has he allowed such a carnage to happen?  
When Ben looks around and glances at the face of a young soldier, staring at a redcoat's motionless, mutilated body at his feet with a startled expression, he realizes, that his men are most likely asking themselves the same questions.

“Captain Tallmadge!”

A voice coming from behind him makes him turn around. He sees a man coming towards him – Private Smith, Ben recalls his name - his blue uniform equally splashed with blood and mud as his own.

“Sir, we counted three dead and seven wounded men. Two horses have been killed and several others are slightly injured.”, the private reports, his breath still labored from the fight. There is a large cut on his cheek, still bleeding, but he does not seem to have noticed his injury yet.  
Ben nods briefly, trying his best to keep up his expressionless face. It always hits him hard when he loses some of his men in battle. Of course he knows that he can never show this sorrow in front of his men. A commanding officer has to be strong and brave, an example to the soldiers following him into battle, and not a victim of his own weaknesses. But when he is alone at night, he does not feel brave at all. All that is left when the sun is setting is guilt, fear and a faint whisper in the back of his mind.

_Look at what you have become._

***

When they return to camp is is already past nightfall. The men have lit the fires in front of their tents, preparing their meals – if that is what one can call their meager rations. The guard at the gate gives Ben a tired, halfhearted salute, not even asking about the riderless horses and the bloodstained uniforms. As quickly as possible the dragoons unsaddle their horses and give them the small amount of hay and grain they still have left. Ben knows what is coming now. Most of the men will drown the memories and the pain of battle in cheap alcohol. After one or two hours they will be celebrating their victory and forget about the companions that lost their life in combat, at least until the morning when the headache will add to the hurtful thoughts of yesterday’s fight. He knows he will not join them today. Not today and not anytime soon. He needs to be alone. Even if that means that the darkest of his thoughts will rise to the surface and torture him again.

“Tallboy!”

Ben is not granted time to look up from his filthy boots he is staring at, already getting lost in thoughts, when a familiar pair of arms closes around his body. Instantly he lifts his own arms to return the hug. He holds onto the warmth radiating from his best friend, his brother in arms, until he feels that their closeness is becoming a bit inappropriate to show in the middle of camp. He knows those hugs. _I’m glad you’re_ _back_ , they say, _I was worried. I missed you._  

“Hey Caleb”, he answers, a little out of breath, like he always is after hugging the whaler. The quickened pace of his heart and the not quite unpleasant feeling in his gut is something he became good at ignoring for the past months, or even years.

Caleb beams at him through the curls of his beard, his eyes lighting up as Ben’s returns his smile.  
“Ya doing alright? Heard ya boys beat up those redcoats pretty badly, eh?”  
When Ben does not answer, Caleb gives him a firm clap on the back and winks at him.

“Come on, Benny. Griffith got us some nice Madeira, I can tell ya, that boy’s a genius”, he says, the joy audible in his voice.  
That’s just Caleb, Ben thinks, happy about a good drink and always trying to cheer him up when he is clearly in distress. Ben has always been the more thoughtful one of them, the worried one, the one seeing a problem arise where there is none yet. He cannot understand how his best friend can keep up his joyful attitude and his boyish optimism, even in midst of a raging war. But nevertheless, or just because of that, Ben needs him like he needs nobody else. He would trust him with his dear life. But still he has not had the courage yet to tell Caleb about the darkness taking control over his thoughts lately, and he does not even know for certain why. Maybe because he feels like he needs to hide his weakness even in from the person he loves most in this world. Or because he is afraid that once he starts to talk about his emotions, somehow those strange feelings he is bottling up will break through to the surface - like the traitorous, sinful whispers in the back of his mind that tell him he loves Caleb more than a friend or a brother should.

“Ya comin’?”, Caleb asks when Ben remains silent.  
“’m sorry”, Ben murmurs and ducks away from the arm his friend stretches towards him in an inviting gesture. He needs to get away. Away from the already drunk men and from their cheerful voices. Away from those warm eyes, that he knows can see directly into his soul. Away from Caleb, although he would rather pull him into another tight hug and never let him go again. Before his eyes start to burn he turns away and runs rater than walks off toward his tent.

“Ben?”, he hears Caleb's confused, and yes, also hurt voice. Every part of his body screams at him to turn around and join his friend. But he needs to get away, even if that means giving in to his toxic thoughts again.

He is relieved when he finally reaches his tent – thank the Lord he has one of his own – and closes the flaps behind him. Quickly he strips off his bloodstained coat, throwing it on the chair in front of the small wobbly desk flooded with paperwork. He will have to clean it in the morning. His waistcoat also has some now brown spots on it so he has only his breeches and his undergarments left to wear which is not really a problem because he is not planning on leaving the tent any time soon. After splashing some water onto his face and forearms he lets himself sink down on his cot.  
He now begins to notice the full extend of his exhaustion. Every part of his body is burning from the exertion of the fight and the long ride afterward and even though he has not suffered an external injury, a sharp sting in his right shoulder shows him that he must have pulled a muscle. Hissing through his teeth when he feels a bolt of pain shoot through his arm, he lies down as carefully as possible. The pain helps Ben to distract himself, but that effect only lasts for a mere minute before he can already feel the sensation of emptiness creep up into his head again. Images of today’s skirmish reappear in front of his eyes although he tries his best to keep his mind occupied with more pleasant memories. Setauket. Childhood days. Yale. Nathan. The more effort he puts into it, the harder it gets to push back the blood, the screams and the terror.  
He should not be like this, he thinks. He is not afraid when he is standing on a battle field, why come that these picture haunt him so dreadfully in the aftermath? He is proud of fighting for his country, his principles, his freedom, so why is there any doubt and unease inside of him? He is an officer, a soldier, not a boy trembling in fear of a fight.

The longer he lies on his cot, the stronger the feeling of being choked grows. He knows that the sensation is unreal, that there is no invisible weight pressing down onto his lungs, but still the panic starts to rise in his chest.

Air. He needs air.

Gasping for breath like he is drowning he sits up, his elbows propped on his thighs, head buried in his hands. He tries to steady his breath, to calm himself, but he is not able to stop the tears starting to burn in his eyes. Black circles start to darken his vision. When he tries to blink rapidly in an effort to see properly again the walls of his tent start to shake and turn before his eyes and he needs to grab the sides of his cot in order not to lose his balance.

_You are going crazy._

The blood is rushing in his ears, dampening all other sound, even the sound of footsteps approaching and the entrance of his tent being pulled open. It is too late for Ben to avert his face to hide his red eyes and the traces of tears on his cheeks from Caleb, who has gone after him. Of course he has. He is Caleb, after all, Ben’s tired mind thinks, while he attempts and fails to wipe the wetness off his face.  
“Tallboy, what’s the problem, come on outside and-” Caleb stops in the middle of his sentence when he notices his friend’s posture and the unmistakeable gesture with which Ben is trying to hide his tears. His expression changes from slightly confused to seriously concerned and he quickly pulls the tent flaps closed behind him before taking a cautious step towards Ben.

“Are you crying?”, he asks the obvious, his voice suddenly not loud and slightly slurred by alcohol anymore but much softer. Ben knows it is of no use but still he attempts to deny his moment of weakness.  
“No, I was just-” He stops when he hears how much his voice is trembling. Caleb is still standing near the tent’s entrance, seeming unsure of how to proceed. The silence is slowly becoming unbearable for Ben, with his shallow breath being the only noise inside the tent. He shifts uncomfortably on his cot, debating whether to remain silent, talk, or to tell his friend to leave him alone. Caleb finally makes a decision for him by coming closer and sitting down on the edge of the cot besides him.  
Wordless he pulls a flask from his overcoat, handing it to his friend. Ben shakes his head, slightly backing off from the alcohol offered to him. Rolling his eyes, Caleb follows his movement and tries to hand him the flask once again.

“Drink. You’re gonna feel better.”

“No, Caleb, I-”

“Yes, you will”, Caleb insists, still offering him the bottle.

With a sigh Ben takes it, careful not to drop it with his trembling hands. The alcohol burns in him throat and makes him want to cough. He doesn’t even want to know what the mixture is that Caleb is carrying around in his flask.  
“There ya go”, Caleb comments, smiling at the face his friend is making. Then he seems to remember the cause of him offering Ben the alcohol and he becomes serious again.  
“What is it, Ben? Ya doin’ alright?”, he asks, tilting his head to look in Ben’s still averted eyes. Ben glances up for a quick moment, his gaze meeting Caleb’s and then looks away again. The shame of being caught in such a vulnerable state is too strong.

“Always too much goin’ on in that head of yours”, he hears Caleb say. His voice, softly, affectionately, is what makes Ben’s heart leap in his chest and his eyes fill with tears again. How much he wants to just give in, let himself sink into his friend’s arms and tell him everything that is troubling his mind.  
“I think I’m going insane”, Ben states quietly, hands grasping his thighs so violently that his knuckles appear white.  
“Yeah, rejectin' a good drink is indeed a sign of insanity, my friend”, Caleb replies, making Ben’s lips curl into a smile against his will. But the lighthearted moment passes in a matter of seconds and Ben is starting to tremble again as he opens his mouth, searching for the right words.

“Look at me, Ben.”

His head jerks up, eyes asking, nearly pleading for help. Caleb’s expression is worried but nevertheless warm, friendly.  
“It’s just me. Talk to me, please”, Caleb says, in a voice that is more serious than Ben has heard it in a long time. Now even the whaler isn’t joking anymore. Ben takes another deep, shaky breath, before he begins to speak. Haltingly, still looking for appropriate ways to express what he is thinking, but he speaks. About the nightmares. The darkness occupying his thoughts at night. The screams of terror that echo in his minds and the pictures of countless fights still flashing before his eyes. The guilt. Caleb listens, his hand resting on Ben’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture, shifting closer to him every time his voice threatens to crack and the right words are missing.

When he is finished, Ben feels more exhausted than right after the skirmish in the morning. He is shaking slightly when he lets his head sink into his hands again, hiding his face. Caleb has not said a single word since he started talking and the longer the silence is stretching the more worried he becomes. Has he said too much and embarrassed himself? What will Caleb think of him, now that he knows of his weakness? Just as he is about to jump to his feet and leave the tent, he feels a pair of warm hands touching his own. With gentle force Caleb makes him lower his hands while still holding them firmly in his own ones. He tilts his head to properly look at Ben as he says, voice steady and quiet:

“Listen to me, alright? There ain’t nobody going crazy here, not on my watch, and especially not you, Tallboy. I ain’t gonna let that happen to ya. I know ya, always worrying ‘bout everythin’, always too much on ya mind. There’s a lot of shite goin’ on out there, and believe me, seein’ those boys dying ain’t easy to forget for me either. The men, why do ya think they drink that much? But you-”  
He pauses for a moment, his eyes wandering over Ben’s face as if he is searching for something.  
“Talkin’ helps, ya know? I’m always around if ya need somethin’, alright? Don’t ya think that this mind of yours is too precious for this kind of thoughts, hm? If I’d known, I’d have talked to ya way earlier. Stayed with ya all night, if that’s what it takes.”

Ben only manages to look at him, out of breath and out of words. He is unable to tell his friend how much those words mean to him. He already knew that he could always count on Caleb staying right by his side, but hearing it again and knowing that there is no need to feel shame because of his weakness, is something that overwhelms him with gratefulness and affection for the moment. Lacking a better option, Ben pulls him into a hug, burying his face in the crook of his friend’s neck. He hears Caleb sigh as he returns the hug, placing one hand on the back of his neck and caressing his skin absentmindedly.

“You’ll be fine. We will. I promise”, Caleb murmurs right next to his ear. Ben nods, knowing that his friend will feel the movement. Just now he realizes how much he has longed for this hug, for the feeling of safety, assurance and closeness. The warmth coming from the other body is comforting, so comforting that Ben feels himself becoming drowsy.

 _I’m so tired_ , he thinks, or maybe he says it out loud because just a moment later Caleb shifts on the cot in order to create space for the two of them to lay down. It’s narrow and it takes them a while to find a comfortable position, but Ben could not care less. He could sleep on the cold floor as long as Caleb’s arms stay wrapped around him.  
He doubts that the posture they are in right now is something that is to be considered an act of pure friendship, but he is well beyond caring.

“Stay with me?”, he asks, his voice more timid than he intended it to be. Caleb pulling him impossibly closer and pressing a soft kiss on top of his head is more than enough of an answer for him.

As soon as he closes his eyes and feels his friend’s calm, steady breath and his warmth, Ben knows that the demons will stay away tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> say hello on tumblr: bennyboy-tallmadge (http://bennyboy-tallmadge.tumblr.com/)


End file.
